


A Cordial Meeting of Minds

by icedteainthebag



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-14
Updated: 2009-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:07:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icedteainthebag/pseuds/icedteainthebag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was supposed to be a birthday drabble for <a href="http://meryl-edan.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://meryl-edan.livejournal.com/"><b>meryl_edan</b></a>, but it just kept going and going. Frak you on your birthday, meryl. Hope you like it.</p>
    </blockquote>





	A Cordial Meeting of Minds

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a birthday drabble for [](http://meryl-edan.livejournal.com/profile)[**meryl_edan**](http://meryl-edan.livejournal.com/), but it just kept going and going. Frak you on your birthday, meryl. Hope you like it.

It was supposed to be a nice dinner, a cordial meeting of minds.

Helena had tried to ignore Laura Roslin’s repeated requests for a “meeting of some sort” to discuss her strong opinions on “what the fleet needs,” but eventually she stopped being amused and started getting irritated at the President’s unrelenting demands.

She had agreed, under duress, to have Roslin over for dinner, as a private meeting in her quarters is actually Helena’s preferred venue in which to speak about Fleet matters. She’s less likely to get hot-headed this way, than in the CIC or over on Colonial One where she feels out of place. A few glasses of wine, a sparing plate of food from some of her last reserves that didn’t have to be reconstituted with water, and she’d be ready to face down this self-important bitch of a President without ordering her XO to take her out.

Roslin had arrived with little fanfare, giving a smile and a thank-you to the guard at the hatch that made Helena roll her eyes and yet, become immediately more curious about her.

They had shaken hands, Roslin dressed to the nines—her impeccable black suit, her overtly feminine heels, her “don’t-frak-with-me” glasses—and Helena in her uniform, buttoned up to the collar. Helena detected something masked by Roslin’s terse smile and muted hello, maybe a feeling of slight superiority, which made Helena smirk as she allowed her in. She knew Roslin’s history, where she’d come from, how she’d gotten thrown into the presidency out of desperation.

Helena wondered if she still felt like she was flying by the seat of her pants. Only one way to find out.

They sit at the table, their food before them, and Helena grabs her wine glass and takes a healthy swig.

“So tell me how a schoolteacher rises to be President of the Twelve Colonies,” Helena says as she leans back in her chair and watches for Roslin’s reaction.

Roslin shifts slightly in her seat as she parts her lips to speak, but says nothing. She recovers quickly by clearing her throat. A small, tolerant smile spreads across her face. “Serendipity?”

Helena smiles back. “That’s a bullshit answer.”

Roslin laughs quietly, releases a quiet hum to nobody in particular. “It’s a bullshit question, Admiral. I’m sure you know very well the specifics of my assumption of the presidency.”

“Not all the specifics,” Helena says. She watches Roslin pick up her fork and sift through her vegetables as she bends her head to take a bite. “Just what’s been recorded in your dossier.”

“Quite honestly,” Roslin responds, her eyes meeting Helena’s with firm resolve, “that’s all you need to know about me.”

“’Need’ and ‘want’ are two completely different animals,” Helena says, and Roslin keeps their gaze despite a slight flush that spreads across her cheeks. Helena takes a smug pride in her ability to so easily fluster her. It doesn’t surprise her—Roslin tries to be dignified, in how she walks, in how she speaks to others, in how she moves her body. But there are slight clues—like the way she blushes over slight innuendo, the way her fingers play with the ends of her hair, or the way she clutches her fork tightly—that tell Helena that her past incarnations weren’t always so venerable.

“Fortunately, I’m in no position wherein it’s required of me to indulge in what people want from me.” Roslin recovers quickly, straightens her spine in her chair and tilts her head to the side with a knowing smile. “However, it is my duty, as president, to discern what the people need from me. And what my people need, Admiral, is precisely the resources that Pegasus has made available to Galactica. For which I thank you kindly again.”

Helena leans forward, digs into her food, and chews on it thoughtfully. She’s slightly irritated, but a little intrigued, by Roslin’s lighthearted defiance. “The protection of the fleet is paramount,” Helena says, taking another sip of wine. “I’ve allocated our resources to the battlestars for the explicit purpose of the protection of our fleet at a time of war. I would hope you, as President, would understand the logic behind my actions. Galactica and Pegasus are our two most precious assets.”

“I disagree,” Roslin injects quickly, her smile fading. Helena chuckles and sets her fork down. She knew that would hit a sore spot and it’s oh, so delightful to see Roslin’s expression turn indignant. “Our most precious assets are the human beings that exist inside of those ships. All of our ships.”

“Those human beings wouldn’t exist but for the battlestars,” Helena responds. Roslin shifts uncomfortably for the first time, her fingernails grazing the edge of the table as she averts her eyes for a split second, then looks back at Helena. Helena notices for the first time how Roslin keeps her dress shirts unbuttoned down as far as they can go without being indecent. This woman plays a good game.

“But we still need to ensure that our civilian population is taken care of, and by that I don’t mean strictly guarded over. Some of those ships need parts, all of them need resources—food, clothing—in order to insure the survival of the people.” Roslin’s voice, though still carrying its trademark all-business tone, seems strained. Helena knows this woman is a humanitarian, and the idea of anyone willfully neglecting her public is most likely driving her crazy.

With that knowledge, Helena tries to hide her amusement as she pushes her further.

“They’ll be fine,” Helena says, shrugging one shoulder. “There’s always an expected amount of loss in a—”

“No,” Roslin counters sharply, placing her palm flat against the table and leaning over her plate. “Not in this battle.”

Helena blinks, her amusement ebbing to a stirring of anger at Roslin’s growing insolence.

“Why don’t you tell me about _battles_ , Madam President,” Helena says, staring into Roslin’s eyes. “Please, indulge me with your military expertise.”

There’s silence between them as they share this gaze, and Helena feels a slight heat in her abdomen at the intensity she sees in the president’s eyes.

“The Cylons changed war,” Roslin says with a pause. “They changed war with the genocide of the human race. And there must be a fundamental change in our philosophy regarding the value of civilian life in times of war. Admiral—Commander Adama and I came to an understanding of this, and I’m expecting your understanding as well.”

Helena laughs, low in her chest, and rocks back in her chair.

“With all due respect, Madam President,” Helena says, “You are not the one in charge of making military decisions in this fleet. You may have Adama’s balls in the palm of your hand, but you certainly don’t have mine.”

Helena takes a deep breath to settle herself, yet is slightly amused and pleased at the way Roslin’s eyes flash in anger, the way she juts her chin out to make herself seem stronger. She imagines if they were standing in the CIC, the President would have her hand on her hip, her feet separated in a stance intended to simulate the appearance of more power.

“If you aren’t going to be amenable to my request that you provide aid to the populace, then I believe my business here is done,” she says.

“You knew that coming in,” Helena counters, standing up beside her chair. “Madam President, you knew my stance was firm on this issue.”

“I also assumed you’d understand the importance of doing everything we can to provide for the survival of our race,” she says as she stands up as well. She folds her arms across her chest and taps her fingers against the smooth fabric of her suit jacket.

“We’ll survive,” Helena says with a grin.

“Don’t be flippant.” Roslin’s tone is biting as she turns her back and walks toward the hatch.

“Madam President?” Helena walks after her. Roslin turns around, her hand on the hatch.

“Yes?” she snaps.

Helena leans in slightly. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay a little longer? An after-dinner drink or two? I’m sure you’d find my quarters just as comfortable as Commander Adama’s.”

“Admiral, you are quickly losing all respect I may have had for you,” she says, her tone low.

“You didn’t have any in the first place.”

Roslin’s eyes meet hers for an extended moment before she takes a deep breath through her nose, letting it out slowly. “Thank you for your time.”

Helena nods and puts her hand on Roslin’s shoulder. “The pleasure was all mine.”

“It most certainly was,” Roslin says, shrugging Helena's hand away.

The hatch door is closed with a slam.  
  



End file.
